Barrier of His Lies
by G.G. Halcyon
Summary: [COMPLETE] MOLLY/JOHN. John is trying to deal with some darkness and trauma from his past. He finds solace and healing with the help of a certain pathologist.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Barrier of His Lies

 **Author:** G.G. Halcyon

 **Fandom:** Sherlock

 **Pairing:** John Watson/Molly Hooper **  
**

 **Warning:** Suggested adult situations, PTSD, depression

 **Publish:** May 2015

* * *

 **CHAPTER ONE**

 **I**

 _John's POV_

It isn't a date really, the more I think about it as I lay here on her bed, both of us naked. Her head is nestled against my chest and she's hugging me way too tightly but I'm afraid to move because I really don't want to wake her. So I just remain as still as possible, staring up at the ceiling shrouded with complete darkness.

Martha's breathing is slow and steady, and I can feel her heart beating against my own. She's one beautiful woman and I feel lucky to even have her, but something is missing. In the month we've been dating, a majority of our time has been spent here in this bed...

Damn Sherlock for making me think about this right now, especially with his wry comments about my 'evening thirsts' with Martha being a habit. Of course it would be a habit...we were after all going out. She is my girlfriend after all, right? And I can't think of any other relationship that was any different.

Martha keeps a pretty busy schedule herself and I do as well. What is wrong with the fact that, yes, we do in fact spend a considerable amount of time together in bed? Then again... how many relationships and women have I had these past several months where this was exactly what it was really made of?

No, no... Martha and I do not spend a significant amount of time just shagging... Really... I mean, the other day or a few days ago I took her to the movies or some concert of a band I don't really care much about. That made her happy; we had beers, we had a laugh... then we went to her apartment...

Well, what if this—this thing I have with Martha at its current state—is exactly what I need? Maybe this type of relationship is crucial for me. Do I really want to be in such a serious relationship at this stage of my life? Working with Sherlock and still dealing with my own psychological issues (I am still seeing my therapist) aren't really conducive for any true serious relationship. Hell, it would only cause more trouble and headache for me... So, is it wrong for me to settle with Martha... for now? Does that make me a total prick?

She shifts against me, hands disengage from me and I feel her turn over to her side, her back facing me. I slowly inch myself in increments off to the side of the bed until I am standing beside it.

I'm surprise that she isn't stirring a bit, and I get up unnoticed.

I'm glad.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and I use its light to guide my way down the hall way where I'm sure I'll find my clothes scattered about.

I walk over my discarded blue button-up shirt, and jeans. A little before that, not too far from the entrance to the living room I see my boxers, and I put them on before grabbing the rest of my clothes in sight and walking to the restroom.

The lights are almost blinding the moment I turn them on and I blink a few times. My reflection greets me and for a moment I can't help but just stare.

I like to think that I look like I've always been and that nothing has changed. I like to think that I look happy and at ease; normal to the outside world... but I'd be lying.

There's this immense feeling of unrest and dread that has been creeping up inside me, welling up and winding, that I struggle to find a way to release it.

I haven't had a restful sleep these past several days—maybe weeks even—and it's slowly taking its toll on me.

These past days every time I close my eyes to sleep, the nightmares begin. I hear the screams and I hear the gunshot, and I feel the heat of the sun burning my flesh as if it was real. But that's not what makes the dreams so unbearable orunsettling. The sight of my comrade coming towards me to warn me of impending enemies... of being in the wrong place at the wrong time... warning me to run... and the sight of him being gunned down in front of me...

 _His scream pierces through the sound of battle and reaches my ear as enemy bullets fire through him, piercing through his flesh and bursting out from him. First through his arms, then his legs, then through his stomach... I see every seeping out as he falls forward not too far from me... I'm so close and I can't move... all of it happening so fast..._

 _It feels like eternity as I watch my friend slaughtered before me... but as soon as I watch him die, so did others around me as gunshots exchange._

 _I'm firing at the enemy behind my cover. I have to keep firing, I have to keep fighting, I can't look at the bodies. He died for a cause, he didn't die for nothing..._

" _John, we have to get out of here!"_

 _Shot after shot after shot after shot..._

" _John! Get the fuck out of here!"_

 _Someone grabs me, and I feel like I'm being dragged. I want to keep fighting to kill whoever it was that killed my comrade who was like a brother to me._

 _As we turn around I feel the shot. The pain is excruciating and spreads through me, right at my leg, and I falter, by someone is hanging onto me, carrying my weight and pushing us forward towards safety._

 _Another shot...I feel it this time, so close to my shoulder and I hear my voice go hoarse with my scream. And darkness engulfs me..._

None of it is real—they were just memories—my nightmares, my dreams. I'm back to where I began, staring at my reflection, and my knuckles are white from holding the side of the bathroom counter.

I have to let it go, I have to get out of here.

The cold water is refreshing against my face and brings me back to reality. It's been 5 years already since I came back from the war, since I've decided to move on with my life and let the past be the past.

 _The screams, the gun shots...the blood, seeing his stomach blown up and..._

Nausea kicks in and I'm vomiting in the toilet, gripping the seat as I kneel down before it. It keeps coming up and I throw up until there's only bile left, and then...nothing.

I sit back against the wall and close my eyes. My heart is beating quickly against my chest, my eyes watered, my throat burning.

Sooner or later these memories will fade, and just like before I'll be able to handle them and push them to the recesses of my memories so that they won't haunt me again. Sooner or later I can handle all this again and be the normal me, and-

THUD. THUD. THUD.

I hear the rapping at the door.

Martha's voice comes throw the bathroom door as she bangs on it.

"John?"

THUD. THUD. THUD.

"Are you okay in there?"

The handle rattles as she tries to open it.

I'm so happy that I closed and locked the bathroom door out of habit.

"John?"

"Stomach's been acting up," I lie.

"You think it's something you ate?"

"Not sure. But I'll be out soon."

I get up from the floor and put on the rest of my clothes. I flush the toilet, go to the sink and splash cold water on my face, and rinse my mouth.

I need to get out of here.

I step out and I'm not surprise I see Martha in her purple night shirt in front of me. Her face is unreadable, and I'm uncertain if the look on her face is of sincere concern or irritation that once again I'm not going to stay the night with her. Her arms are crossed in front of her chest and she's looking right into my eyes, trying to read me. For a moment I wonder if she can tell I'm lying.

"What do you think it could be?"

"Maybe something I ate."

I hope she heard me vomiting and that she's noting my paleness and my rough voice. I'm certain she believes my lie.

"Yeah," she starts, and I feel her touch my cheek with the back of her hand, "It didn't sound so good in there; doesn't seem like you have a fever."

She looks down at my clothing.

"You know you don't have to head home because you're sick."

"I think it's for the best," I explain this, giving her what I hope looks like a sad and disappointed look. "The last thing I want is to get you sick too; or throwing up all over the place." I add a wry laugh for added effect, and I get her to smile faintly at me.

She then nods her head in agreement.

Knowing Martha, the last thing she wants to do is deal with a sick boyfriend; god knows I'm not even sure if Martha has a nursing bone in her body... she never fancied me as being one, and I'm actually thankful for this.

"You need to get some rest and take care of yourself, John."

We head to the living room where I grab my jacket and put on my shoes.

We're in front of her door now and she's about to let me out.

She hugs me and kisses me on my left cheek.

"I hope you feel better."

TBC.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title:** Barrier of His Lies

 **Author:** G.G. Halcyon

 **Fandom:** Sherlock

 **Pairing:** John Watson/Molly Hooper

 **Rating:** T

 **Warning:** Suggested adult situations, PTSD

 **Publish:** May 2015

* * *

 **CHAPTER 2**

 **II**

 _John's POV_

It's still pretty early, 8:30 P.M. as I leave Martha's. I walk out into the street and decide to roam around a bit to clear my head. I don't want to head home, as it will mean having to be left in the confines of my thoughts in my room, attempting to hide my unease from Sherlock. I'm going to wait until after 10:00 PM to head home, as I'll be certain Sherlock will not be there.

He is after all a creature of habit—and as much as he wants to claim he is virgin and untouched—I am certain that on such days he's venturing into his favored secret brothel to "rid himself of his need" before it "disrupts in mental state and balance and interrupts his sensibilities"—all of these I quote directly from him.

Interesting enough the fact that Sherlock has entrusted me with this information, as I know he knows quite well about my troubled past. It has been years, however, since we've really spoken about these things: Sherlock occasional ventures into a high end brothel to meet a certain mystery woman who has been seeing on occasion for almost a year now, and my own background of my gunshot and witnessing the death of my friend.

The night we discussed it was so long ago, and all came shortly after our third case. I remember it clearly because it was the time he had been high, and I inebriated. I suppose men do confess their inner thoughts when drugged or drunk... and I remember that night I fully realized that Sherlock was someone I could easily call a friend, someone I could entrust with my secret. However, it has been years and in those years I have never allowed him to fully see the disruption my nightmares or memories truly cause me... then again, they have never surfaced as they are now during my time living with him.

The last thing I want to do is to have him witness me in my weakened state, or to question me or 'deduce' me to this liking. I'd rather avoid him... or perhaps everyone, until I see my therapist to deal with this.

I take out my phone.

CALENDAR. THURSDAY. 8 AM. SUBJECT: Contact Dr. McArthur, schedule appointment.

I mark it 'HIGH IMPORTANCE' on my calendar so the box on the date is red. I turn off my phone screen and shove it back into my pocket.

Somehow I feel a little better. I just have today to go through and I'll be all right for tomorrow.

...God I must be going mental.

I keep walking until I find a bar. It's so easy to simply walk in and get a drink, but I don't know if once I start I won't be able to stop and I will be going down a horrible path.

I past it and keep walking until soon enough I see St. Bartholomew's Hospital not too far. I pass by a pale green VW Beetle parked on the corner... I know only one person who always parks on that very same corner, and on that very same spot, almost every day.

My watch reads '9:30 PM'. I'm not going to even doubt that Molly is still there in that basement doing her work. I'm not surprise at all. There would be times I would walk to my car or the pub from Martha's condo—which just happens to be very close to Bart's—and I'd see Molly's car still parked there. Sometimes it would be as late as 11:00 PM, but I never really mentioned anything about it to Molly.

I never really gave it any thought.

I stop and simply look at the car and at the few lights still on near the bottom floors of St. Bart's Pathology Lab. I start to walk again, and I head pass _Paddy's Pub_ and my feet stops and I look at the entrance.

I can go for a beer...maybe a pint even. Go inside and just sit down and listen to the noise around me and just forget.

I hear the sound of the people inside the pub—the conversations, the laughter, and the clatter of the drinks. Shit. I put my hands in my pocket as I find myself pacing outside the pub.

 _I can't go in. I can't..._

… _I need to. Just to forget._

I run my hand through my hair as I look through the bar window. Shit. I realize my hands are shaking now and I ball them into a fist and shove them in my pockets to stop them. The memories...I can slowly feel it rising...the feeling that I felt encompassing me.

"Fuck it!" I put my hands on the handle of the heavy red wooden door of the bar and was about to pull it open until I hear my name.

"John! Is that you?"

I turn around abruptly and I see _her_ across the street, not far from that hideous green Volkswagen. She waves at me, and for a moment I just simply stand and stare, before I hesitantly raise my hand in an acknowledging wave back to her.

I hope she doesn't cross the street to come see me. If she does it would mean I would have to put on my best façade and act like 'normal John'. Right now, I don't find it in me to try to act and since it's Molly, I don't think it's anything for me to worry about. I don't talk to her often, and our interactions are always almost very limited to a 'hello' and 'hi' and 'how are you?'. Still though... I find myself feeling a panic course through me as I watch her pause to watch me across the street.

"Molly, good evening!" I shout across, although the street is quite narrow and surprisingly empty with only few cars passing sporadically and disappearing as they made their turns at the traffic light.

"Hi, John, surprise to see you still around here!"

To my surprise, instead of going on with her way to her car, she decides to cross the street to meet me. I didn't expect her to do something like that, but then again I never saw Molly outside of her office—or lab—for that matter until now.

She's bundled up in her ankle length dark blue overcoat and a white scarf around her neck. Her hair is no longer in a side ponytail, but in a messy heap of a bun atop her head. She's smiling at me faintly, her eyes friendly, and her cheeks flushed from the cold biting air.

I zip up my coat as a gust of wind comes through and put my hands back in my pockets. I watch her shiver too, her arms tighten around her shoulders which cause the straps of her large khaki messenger bag—or was it a purse?—to slip a little off her shoulder.

There's an awkward silence as she simply smiles at me, question in her eyes. I wonder if she's mentally berating herself for making the move to join me on my side of the street with no idea how to proceed in conversation. She was always awkward when it came to socializing and I feel relaxed and certain that she'll be on her way soon. So I say something just to get the ball rolling and get it all over with.

"I was in the area about to have myself a drink. I see you're on your way home."

She nods her head and looks behind us at the bright glowing sign reading "Paddy's Pub". It dawns on me that we were standing to the left of the bar entrance, only several yards away.

"I've been there a few times; it's a pretty nice place," she tells me. I don't believe her. Paddy's Pub is probably the grungiest of bars, smoke filled, loud and often packed with footballer fans. I can't imagine Molly ever being there... I watch her brush a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She is never good at lying.

"You always there this late?"

Molly shrugs. "Just been pretty busy, a lot of stuff to do you know?"

"I'm sure Sherlock's requests aren't making it easier for you."

"I don't mind it really. I'm just glad I can be of some help. It's nice knowing I'm solving crimes too... well, sort of, in a way I guess."

"It's good you're on our team."

I try to imagine Molly in the pathology lab or in a room with cadavers in the late night. I can't even imagine being able to concentrate knowing that I had a cold drawer of dead bodies nearby. Thinking about it, it dawns on me that it takes someone with courage to be able to even do the type of job Molly did. One had to be fearless, not afraid of death to be surrounded by it on a daily basis, from morning to night, and also be able to manage looking and dissecting them.

"I just wanted to let you know I'm done looking through those samples Sherlock requested," she says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah...I mean, yes. Uhm, I was going to wait until tomorrow to let you and Sherlock know, but just figured since I've found you here that I can, you know, tell you. I have the data ready for tomorrow for you both to review."

I wonder if that's what she was working on at St. Bart's up until this late at night. I can only guess that a lot of Sherlock's requests can't be done during her normal work hours, since she still did have obligations as one of the senior pathologist and forensic examiners in the hospital. It just hits me that most of her work and aid with our cases are volunteer and unpaid. Not once has she ever made any complaints about this, or decline her help.

I look at her intently, seeing her in a new light. Molly Hooper was truly an attribute to our team, and the most humble. She also never seem to mind the many things we—mostly Sherlock—threw her way regarding out investigations. We never praised her either for it, except for a fleeting "thank you" and realizing this, I find a part of me filled with a resolve to change this somehow. Maybe I'll bring it up to Sherlock, maybe buy her lunch or something one day.

"Thanks for letting me know, Molly, I don't know what we'd do without you," I tell her sincerely, catching the look of surprise in her eyes and the upward tilt of her lips. "I'm sure Sherlock will be happy about your findings tomorrow," I add.

Our eye contact breaks as she looks down at her hands. It amuses me how every time I try to keep a steady eye contact with her, she seems to find ways to avert it elsewhere (her scarf, her hands, her shoes, the wall, the door, etc.) It's this shyness that gives her awkwardness about her, as if our encounter is something that places her out of her element. I wonder if maybe it's just because of all the times she's alone working in the labs, with few people to converse with except her assistant and an intern.

Molly makes a gesture and looks at the silver watch on her wrist and reads the time out loud. She looks up at me with a light smile. I guess she realizes that maybe it's a good time as any to part ways.

"So, I guess I'll be heading off," she says to me as she adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "I'll be seeing you around, John."

"You too, Molly. Have a good night," I respond back.

I watch as she turns around and prepare to cross the street to get back to her car and then I catch myself calling after her.

"Hey, Molly, wait!"

She stops mid step and turns back to look at me in question.

"You said you've been at Paddy's Pub before, yeah?" Somehow the question was the only thing that immediately came to mind—it was the only thing that wasn't as blatant as what I really want to ask her.

The look she gives me is one of confusion and I can tell her mind is already wondering where I am heading with this.

"Uhm, yes, I have," she slowly answers, "It's, uh, been a really long time though since I've been in there." (Again, she lies to me.)

What was I really getting at? Why did I just stop her? Is it because I know that once she leaves I'll be back to wallowing in my own self-pity, and in my own darkness? I don't know.

There's a part of me that want to talk to someone, and a part of me that just wants to let it all go and disappear. Maybe all of this is fleeting really...these memories of the war... I mentally shake myself. The truth is, I feel that maybe if I have someone with me at this very moment, I won't succumb so badly in a drunken stooper, alone at St. Paddy's.

" _John, when you feel at your lowest and the memories come back, do you have someone that you can just be with? Maybe a friend just to talk to, just to stay with you?"_ —Dr. McArthur's words from our last session echoes through my head.

"John...?"

Maybe I should go back to Martha's... No, that's the last place I want to go. Martha doesn't know about my PTSD, she doesn't even know about that part of my life, and I know she wouldn't care to be bothered by a 'broken' man either.

I look at Molly and she's studying my face and there's concern there... I see a look that I have never received from Martha, or even Sherlock. It is a sincere concern, a warmness in her near presence and in the touch of her hand on my shoulder.

She's peering up at me, only a feet away from in front of me. Her brows are furrowed, and her voice is hush. "John, are you all right?"

Her eyes avert to my left hand on my side. I look down at my hand as well and I realize they are shaking just a bit and burry it immediately inside my pockets.

I try my best to steady it, but I know Molly took note of it. I meet her eyes again and this time, they are not fleeting, but looking directly at me. They were questioning eyes and I've never seen her with such a look of intense care.

"I'm okay, Molly," I tell her, and I hope she brushes it off. I try to make it light and I plaster on my best beaming smile. "I just wanted to see if maybe you'd want to catch a drink. You deserve it."

Her look of concern doesn't dissipate. I pray my voice isn't wavering and doesn't tell her otherwise. She's quiet for a moment as if in thought. I see her open her mouth as if to speak—to question more—but she stops herself as the door to Paddy's pub burst open and a group of obviously inebriated and very loud young lads step out and chatter about. This seems to be the break that we needed.

I watch her look in at the pub as the door is held open and prepared to close. I feel her hands pull away from my shoulder and fall to her side.

I feel awkward now that I can't read her expression. "You don't have to join, Molly. I'm sure you had a long day and probably just want to head home."

I think I made a mistake. Who am I to ask for her company? Was I really that afraid to be left alone? I think I can handle myself—one drink is all I need. One drink, go home, see Dr. McArthur tomorrow. That's it...

"Sure." Molly lightens her expression, as she adjusted her coat and purse. I try to hide my surprise and relief. "John, I'll have a drink," she says to me with a nod of her head.

She has this determined look on her face as if she's preparing herself to go into battle; to tackle being in a place—a dingy pub, no less—which she knows damn well really isn't the type of place she wants to be in. I already know this.

"We can go someplace else—is that okay with you?" Somehow I have to ask, because I'm certain she has never set foot in this place, even though she keeps saying she did.

"Weren't you meeting someone here?" She asks me; I know she's trying to find out if she's going to be intruding into anything. I want to tell her that I often go to the bars and drink alone, but I find that may not be the best thing to share.

"I was going to, but they cancelled just not too long ago, and I figured 'what the hell', you know?" I lie. I don't want to look like a sad prick about to get drunk on his own. I try to laugh it off; to sound like it didn't matter. If she still wants to join me in the pub, I'll just make sure to stick to the light beer.

"I'm not much of a drinker," she tells me.

I'm sure if I push on she'll still go inside the pub with me...

The door of the bar opens once more—the noise from the instead escaping and surrounding us briefly. She averts her gaze to peek inside again, and I can tell this would be the last place she would want to spend a time after work. Molly doesn't seem like the pub type of girl...and right now, the pub is beginning to sound less appealing

"How about we grab coffee?" I ask her, and this seems to perk her interest and her eyes brighten.

"There's a café on this same block," Molly says, "It's open very late... Uhm, we can still go to the pub if you really want to and—"

"I've never been to this cafe," I cuts her off, "but I'll take your lead."

I smile at her and I revel at how she looks more at ease. I think time at the cafe is a better decision than the stench of Paddy's Pub...

I watch her bundle herself more and we walk side by side to the café.

I find an ease overcome me knowing that I've chosen not to drink, and I've chosen to find a distraction away from this darkness or melancholy inside me. Somehow, in a sense I feel like Molly is saving me from a horrid night, and maybe even from myself, and she doesn't even know it.

TBC.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Barrier of His Lies

 **Author:** G.G. Halcyon

 **Fandom:** Sherlock

 **Pairing:** John Watson/Molly Hooper

 **Rating:** T

 **Warning:** Suggested adult situations, PTSD

 **Publish:** May 2015

* * *

Chapter 3

(III)

 _Molly's POV_

There's something troubling John. He tries to hide it, but I can see right through it. I know how to read the little signs, and I know when people are hiding something. I know from experience. I lie and put on a façade every waking day. Sometimes though that façade cracks and whatever it is you're trying to hide or keep at bay seeps on through...

I see this happening in John... What is it that's troubling him?

We're walking side by side and I sneak glances at him. His hair is ruffled and windblown, and his brow is creased in worry. I want to know what he's thinking about. It must be something awful, or horrid.

I want to pry, but I stop myself. I don't have the courage to ask or to try to strike a conversation. I don't know what to say, so I just accept the fact that he's asked for my company... because not many people do that to begin with, and any other time I would simply be home now reading some romance novel with Toby to until I fall asleep.

"Here it is!"

He opens the door for me with his announcement, and I smile at him and mutter thanks as I go in first. The warmth of the little coffee shop envelope us and it's comforting. There is no one in the shop, except the two of us, the barista, and a young gentleman sitting on the sofa in the corner near the fireplace reading some textbook studying intently. It is a stark contrast to the ruckus of Paddy's Pub, and I'm glad for the solace.

I see John shrugging off his heavy coat and throwing it over one of two couches on the other side of the room, not too far from the entrance and the register. I stand in line and greet the barista, who acknowledges me warmly.

"Nice evening to you! What can I brew for you this very cold evening?"

Her voice is upbeat and cheerful, that it is very easy to reflect. I look up at their menu, unsure of what to get.

"Give me a second, still deciding."

"Of course! Let me know when you're ready!" With that, she returned her attention to pastry display, neatly arranging the muffins and cookies.

I watch as John walks up to me, his hands in the pockets. He stands next to me looking up at the menu briefly and turns to me,

"You ordered yet?"

"I can't decide. How about you?"

"I usually have my coffee black, but maybe I'll try something new."

"We have our special dark roast, freshly brewed just a minute ago. Very smooth and great aroma," the barista says to us.

"Sounds good to me, I'll take a large cup of that," John says, and looks at me, "What'll you get Molly?"

"I'm thinking of getting a white mocha...I usually get hot chocolate, but I may try something different this time," I tell him, "Go ahead and pay for yours; I should have an idea in a second."

"No, no. One tab, I'll pay."

"It's okay, John. Not necessary."

He turns to the barista, cash already in his hands to pay. "White mocha for her, dark roast for me and two of those pastries there."

"All right, sir. I'll have it all ready for you in a moment. I'll bring it up." With that the barista processed the payment, handed John his change and turned around to begin our order.

"John—" I try to tell him that I'll pay, but he simply waves a hand to quiet me.

"Molly, the lease I can do for your company."

I shake my head, I dislike having to owe somebody back. He doesn't understand that for me when someone does a gesture like that, I have to somehow find a way to return the favor in equal ways. It's just how I've always been. In the back of my head I'm already planning a way to repay him. It's already making me feel uneasy. I brush these thoughts aside though as I follow him to the maroon colored arm chairs he has chosen for us.

We sit down and I sink into the comfortable chairs with a sigh. I haven't even realized how tired I truly have been or how much I miss sitting down until now. Having performed three autopsy this evening—which requires a lot of standing—has left me craving the simply necessity of sitting in a comfy chair.

I close my eyes as I rest my arms on the soft cushion of the arm chairs.

"Looks like you needed this as much as I."

I open my eyes and turn to John, whose blue eyes are observing me. I hope I'm not blushing; I didn't realize that I totally look so out of sorts, my legs stretched out in front of me, as I sit back, still bundled in my heavy overcoat with my scarf.

"This is very comfortable," is all I say as I gather myself, stand up and remove my scarf and coat. I sit back down and stare out the window.

Where we're seated we're facing outside towards the streets. Our comfortable arm chairs situated almost side by side, and are separated by a small table where we can set our drinks and food. It is so comfortable, and I can't think of a time where I would be seated here with someone other than the company of myself.

This is nice, just us sitting here relaxing. It's just what I need... It's a different distraction that makes me just forget about the letter I received in the mail two days ago that's shoved inside my purse. I don't want to think about what it says...

"Here you go, my dears," the barista says to us, breaking my train of thought. We thank the barista as she hands us each our cups. I welcome it.

I take a sip.

The mocha is delicious and it hot liquid warms me. It reminds me of how much I really enjoy simple things, like a hot beverage when I'm feeling down and a comfy chair to sit in. If I wasn't out here with John, I would be at home in my pajamas, drinking hot chocolate while lounging on my sofa with my cat Toby. This though—being out and about—is a nice change of things and I really want John to know I appreciate it, and that I hope he knows that I need this as much as I know he seems to need the company as well.

I catch John looking at me, and he's smiling so I smile back.

This is nice.

"I don't do this often," I say. I can't believe I just said that. Then again, I'm sure that he knows this already...after all my social activities—or lack of them—are pretty common knowledge to anyone who knows me.

He raises an eyebrow.

"Usually at this time, I'm home by now watching the telly, or reading, or, uhm, something, you know?"

Am I making this awkward already? Why is it that I can never say the things I want succinctly? A simple "thank you for inviting me out, I needed this too" would be sufficient, but somehow it doesn't come out like that at all, and he's already responding.

"Don't worry, I don't either," he tells me this as he takes a sip of his coffee and looks out the window.

There is a silence that falls before us and I'm not sure whether it is one of those comfortable silences they always describe in novels. I don't even know why or how silence can even be 'comfortable'. Sitting here with John, I don't feel like I am being judge or that my presence isn't being tolerated (instead of wanted and welcomed) like I would when I'm around Sherlock. With Sherlock I could felt the energy from him that he really didn't want to be near me at all or even talk to me. I felt like as much as I tried to befriend him or get close, he would strengthen his force field against me and just say more mean things or just treat me a little bit more harshly.

John...well he's different. He always was different in comparison to Sherlock. He was always nice to me, always smiled in a way that it met his eyes and it didn't seem forced or insincere. Even though we wouldn't exchange many words or have lenghtly discussions outside of things related to their cases to be solved, his body language and actions towards me always spoke volumes. There would be times that he'd open the door for me, help me carry lab materials if he just so happen to catch me in the midst of tidying up, or just ask the simple question of "How is your day going?" or "How are you?".

I know it may seem pathetic how much I actually take to heart his kindness and genuine niceness, but when you're a girl like me with no friends, those are the things that mean the most. And sitting here with him, although it is quiet, is actually comforting, because for the first time I don't feel so lonely and I'm somehow not wallowing up in my apartment thinking about an obligation that I'm dreading to attend to.

"Must be serious, huh?"

I look up at John, startled by his question after a few minutes of silence. I have been so lost in my thoughts that I didn't even catch him studying me until now. I also didn't realize until I feel my expression lighten that my brows had been furrowed, and that my lips were pursed in thought.

"Sorry, I was just thinking about stuff."

"I never saw that kind of expression on you before."

I sigh. Should I share with him what it is going through my mind, and what's been troubling me? Would he even care?

I have never really been one to try to ask for sympathy—well, there hasn't been anyone to ask—or just to talk to about what's been going on in my life. It's just something that I've forced myself to get used to, especially since I've moved so many hours away from home to work in the city. I don't even remember how it works—sharing with someone something horrid or sad that has happened to you, and getting some kind of acknowledgement or compassion from them. It's been so long and I never thought I'd be in this predicament, where I find myself so inclined to share with someone—just to simply talk—about something so devastating and real that I haven't even had to gut to just accept and face.

"Molly?" He's looking at me concerned now, "Is something the matter?"

I try to give him a shake of my head 'no' and smile, but I realize my façade has faltered. I know this because I feel my lips quiver as I try to bite down a sob and my eyes are watering from unshed tears I hand't realized were forming. I look away from his gaze as I nod my head quickly, turn around and dry my eyes and settle myself.

I don't like people seeing me like this, like I'm weak and an emotional wreck. Most importantly, I don't know John well enough and I feel a heat of embarrassment at my lack to hold composure in front of him.

The sadness is overwhelming me and the thought of the letter in my purse resurface until it's at the very top of my mind. I remember the words over and over and over and it hits me because it's real.

'Molly, dear, come home, please. We need you here, your dad would have wanted all of us together' the letter from my mother read. 'You know it's the right thing..."

"Molly?" John's voice is low and closer now. I'm sure if I turn around I'll find him turned towards me and leaning close. I don't want to look at him right now, so I try to pretend it's nothing.

"I'm okay," I say, my head turned away from him. "Uhm, I just need to go, uhm...I'm going to go grab water." I stand up without looking at him and I can't find a better excuse to get away from him because I think I'd made a mess of things by crying. A part of me just wants to make the excuse to just leave and walk away, but I know that's rude. I decide I can just step away, maybe get water, go to the restroom and wash my face and compose myself.

I fix my jacket and I'm about to take a step, until I feel a hand on my shoulder. I know he's standing behind me now—both of our coffees ignored on the table in front of us. I don't turn to look because I know its John, and somehow my eyes are getting teary again.

"Hey, it's okay." He tells me as he turns me gently around until I'm facing him. He's a head taller than me and I'm happy about this because I'm trying my best to avoid looking him straight in the eye, but it doesn't work. I feel his left hand raise and tilt my chin up so I'm looking at him. I realize how close we are and I wonder what he's thinking seeing me like this.

His eyes are a warm hazel with tints of green and I see concern their and its sincere. "Whatever it is, Molly, I'm here if you need to talk about it." He offers this because he's a nice guy, and somehow when he finishes saying that I find myself finally letting my tears out and next thing you know I'm sobbing, and he's pulling me close.

I cry. It's a pain that was deep in my gut that comes out in sobs so powerful that I feel my body shake against his chest and in his embrace. "He's dying, John... he's dying." I repeat against his chest, the reality hitting me and I'm trying to explain to him through tears what's the cause of my despair, but they come out muffled and low as he pulls me in tighter.

"It's okay, Molly, it's okay." I hear him whisper against the top of my hair. "You don't have to tell me, but I'm here."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Barrier of His Lies

 **Author:** G.G. Halcyon

 **Fandom:** Sherlock

 **Pairing:** John Watson/Molly Hooper

 **Rating:** T

 **Warning:** Suggested adult situations, PTSD

 **Publish:** June 2015

 **A/N:** Thank you so much for reading! This was something I really had to get out, and it was more of a 'therapy' for me to write this. I promise the next Molly and John fanfiction from me will me romantic, sensual and upbeat. ;) -G.G.

* * *

 **Chapter IV**

(IV)

 _John's POV_

I held her until her crying subdued to sniffles, and she had dried her eyes. We moved from where we were seated and into a quiet and secluded corner of the café, away from the curious gazes of the barrista and a few other patrons. We sit around a small table for two, facing each other. She doesn't look up at me as her eyes cast down and she looks at her hands.

"John, I'm sor—"

"Molly, don't be."

I stop her from apologizing. I touch her hands with mine and she looks up.

Fresh tears well up again in her eyes and I'm praying she tells me what's bothering her because I have no idea and seeing her like this eats at me in a negative way.

I have never seen her cry before, and never even imagined it. Seeing such sadness in her eyes and in her demeanor... I guess it makes me realize that Molly is just like any other person, just like me.

"Molly..." I say her name, trying to find how to proceed, but sadly, I just don't know where to begin.

"Today you asked me why I was at the lab so late," she begins, "It's not because I had to finish anything mandatory, or that I was doing something about Sherlock's case. I was trying to keep myself busy, trying to find more and more things to do... to forget... I found out two days ago that my father passed away..."

The tears are falling again and she hurried wipes them away.

"Molly, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Don't be... he... he wasn't the best of men, wasn't the best father or husband to my mother at that." She shakes her head at this revelation and I don't know what to say, although I have a feeling I know where this is going.

"He hit my mother, my sister and I, he was abusive especially when he drank or gambled away the money we earned at the farm," she says to me. "And now that he's dead...I don't know how... I don't know how to feel."

"Was he the reason you moved here?"

"Mostly, I had to get away from Ginsburg, I couldn't take it anymore. Every other day I would come home from school and see my mom's bruises, and listen to her lie through her teeth that 'it's just an accident' 'he didn't mean it', and... my little sister was so young she didn't know that growing up like that wasn't normal. I'm sorry, I'm sure you don't want to hear this..."

I shake my head and urge her to continue.

"So when high school ended I was hell bent of leaving Ginsburg, taking any opportunity to get out of that small farm town and to make a name for myself."

"I don't blame you. I would have done the same."

"I haven't been back since then."

"Not even to visit your mother?"

"I did try to visit many years ago, but my father made it a point to not welcome me. And my mother doesn't disagree with him. So no, I haven't been there in decades. On occasion I would write to my mother, or phone her, but that's few. My little sister doesn't talk to me, because she thinks I abandoned them, and ...And the last I heard from her is through this letter..."

Molly pulls out a folded letter from her bag and hands it to me. I open it and read it; it's clearly from Molly's mother dated two days ago. I read it and I understand how she would feel torn. Her mother was begging her to attend the funeral, to finally come home to the family. I can't even imagine how I'd be able to.

"Are you planning on attending?" I ask.

"That's the thing, a part of me does not want to go, I don't want to see him, even though he's gone now. A part of me doesn't want to give him the benefit that I came back just for him." She let out a sad laugh, "Does that sound ridiculous?"

"No, not at all. He hurt you, and you don't own him anything, Molly."

"In a sick way when I found out he passed away, I felt ...happy. I felt happy because I knew he could never hurt my mother or sister ever again. But at the same time, he is my father... and there were few memories of good times, very few, but they're vivid. When he wasn't drinking, he seemed like a good man, but..."

"Don't make excuses for who he was, the truth is that in the end he was your father, and he was a husband who should have taken care of his family, not hit them and use being drunk as an excuse. No one should grow up being treated that way Molly, or feeling so hurt that their only hope is to leave the place they've grown in."

"I know, a part of me keeps telling myself that. But I know, I know I have to go, because of my mother, because I know she's weak right now and I need to know she and my sister are okay."

"If that's something you feel you must, you must... but don't be so harsh on yourself for feeling the way you do."

Molly dabs away her unshed tears and squeezes my hand. Her sadness reminds me of how death affects all of us in the same—it brings pain, and it brings back memories. I realize that taking care of her has put my own unwanted memories at bay, and I don't feel my hands shaking like they had been before. Being with her like this makes me feel strong; I remain strong for her, because I know how it feels to feel lost, to feel anger, to feel sadness all in the same and not have anyone to talk to or understand.

* * *

 _Molly's POV_

It's late and I feel like a pathetic fool, exposing myself and crying in front of John like a sad little girl. I am a woman who shouldn't so easily burst into tears, just because someone made the effort to listen. But, I did exactly that and I don't know what is going through John's head right now as I walk beside him.

We're not walking to our cars, although that would have made the most sense now especially since it is getting late and the café had closed. No… instead we find ourselves walking towards Postman's Park, just a block from the café. Neither of us bring this up, or mention anything about it. Our feet just seem to head towards it, just like the other couples of the café that just so happen to decide they wanted to continue their conversation or take a nice quick stroll.

I look at John as we walk and his expression is one that looks like he's in deep thought. I want to say something, but instead I remain quiet. Maybe I'm being selfish, or maybe I've completely lost my mind, but I enjoy the easy silence that has fallen between us.

We walk side by side and enter the park and end up sitting on a bench overlooking a small fountain. I look around us—and I can see he is too—and I see a few people sitting in the other benches nearby chatting about and laughing. The glow of the park lamps cast a warming hue over all of us, and the lights that shine on the fountain makes the water glisten even in the night.

It's a peace that I can't believe I feel inside me, as I admire the fountain and just simply be. The sounds of chatter, laughter, and the water create an ambiance that distracts me from my melancholy thoughts and settles me.

"This is nice."

John's words take me away from my trance and I turn to him. He's looking right at me and I wonder if he has been studying me all along. I smile at him, and that's when I realize the warmth of his hand which is holding mine. I look down and I see our hands right in between us on the small space on the bench. How long have they been like this? I don't know whether to move them or not, and simply decide to keep them there, and John doesn't seem to mind.

"John…" I say his name and I catch his attention and then close my mouth when I realize I don't know where to begin. I want to ask him how he was doing and why he seemed so distress when I first saw him. I want to know about him and see him open us just as I had. But instead—as he looks at me questioningly, expecting me to say more—I just cower back and say, "Thanks."

"Nothing to thank me for," he says. "I actually should be thanking you. You saved me from myself tonight."

I catch his wording. "What do you mean?" I ask, turning my body towards him. He avert his gaze to avoid mine, and he just looks on towards the fountain.

"I was going to go to Paddy's Pub this evening..."

"Yeah, you said to meet a friend, right?"

"No, Molly…that was a lie. I was actually going there to get drunk, drink until I can't remember and maybe past out, who knows? Then you stopped me."

I'm surprised by his candidness. I didn't expect him to tell me this and I don't know what to say so I stay quiet. I study the side of his face and I wish he would look at me in the eyes. I cover his hands with both of mine and he finally looks at me and what I see in his eyes are as sorrow just like my own.

"Did—did Sherlock know about this?" I ask because I don't know what else to say, and then I feel stupid saying it. I should just stay quiet; but I want to know why Sherlock would even let his best friend be in a state where he'd want to drink himself sick just to deal with whatever troubles him.

"No, I doubt it. For all he knows I'm tip top." He tries to make light of it, and I'm wondering if it's too forward to asks for specifics. I'm not really good with these things… I can tell though that he wants to talk about whatever it is bothering him, and I hope he knows that he can talk to me about it.

We're quiet again, and I see John shift on the bench and take a deep breath as if preparing himself. His eyes are deep pools staring right at me, and I feel a shiver course through me at the realization of how intimate this moment was. The fact that I know he is about to share with me something that maybe he doesn't share with anyone.

"Molly, the truth is, I was going to go to the pub to drink and try to forget what happened when I served in the war. It was my first instinct to try to cope… today's the anniversary of my friend's death and…"

He stops, his breath shaky now at the remembrance and I understand now what he's trying to say, and I say nothing, and just let him know I'm listening and I care.

"I haven't had an episode in several years, and just one day the nightmares started, the memories came back." He shakes his head trying to shake the memories.

"Is that why your hands were shaking when I saw you...?"

"Yeah, PTSD can do that to you..." I watch as he tries to brush it off now and gives me a light smile, and he looks pointed at our hands together, "But see? Haven't shaken in a while, thanks to your firm grip."

I blush when I realize that I was in fact holding onto his hand a little too tightly. I let go and mumble a 'sorry', but he only laughs a little at it, and our hands end up just lying next to each other in the space between us.

There is a pregnant pause again as we watch the other people in the park begin to leave and walk about. I am worried about John and I wondered if he'd be willing to open up about his experience in war.

I've read before that PTSD was common among soldiers who returned from Iraq and Afghanistan. I had never imagined John to have suffered from it—maybe it was because it never came to mind—but then again he probably saw a lot more than others since he had been part of the medical team, from what I remembered hearing from Sherlock.

I feel so out of my element because I don't know how to help John, and I offered him all that I could.

"John..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad that you didn't go to Paddy's Pub, and I'm happy we're here right now. And you can talk to me, you can talk to me about it if you like, and I know it may be hard or maybe you don't want to talk about it at all..." I take a deep breath, praying I didn't sound so nervous and awkward, but I want to make sure he knows I'm sincere and I want to help. "I'm not good with these things and—"

"Molly, shh." He stops me and he gives me a smile. "This," he waves at them and their surroundings, "it helps. You, being here, helps."

FIN...


End file.
